When I inherited my father’s fortune, I became a billionaire… but not a billionaire like Darko Lijander. I thought wealth meant power, until he stripped me bare, spanked me until I called him master, and then showed me what real power looks like in the most shameful way possible.
As I am taken from my home to his waiting helicopter, naked, blushing, and already very, very thoroughly used, I have no idea what he has in store for me, but one thing is abundantly clear.
I am now his property.
Publisher’s Note: Property includes spankings and sexual scenes. If such material offends you, please don’t buy this book.
“Can I get you anything Miss Parker-Baskerville?”
“No thank you, Miles. I’m just going to grab a shower and get some sleep.”
“Very well. And, Miss… I am very sorry. Let me know if you need anything.”
Miles has never had any expression on his dour face, not since he came to work for my family twenty years ago, but today, the lines and wrinkles droop just a fraction more, and the corners of his lips describe an even deeper reverse crescent. This is the face of his mourning. The only genuine one I’ve yet seen.
My father died four days ago. The funeral was yesterday. Today I have been called into meeting after meeting, each one of them so allegedly important there is no time for me to grieve. None of them have been important at all, as far as I can tell. I am the last of my line. I have no brothers, no sisters. My mother is dead. My father had no siblings either. His entire estate has been left to me, and the vultures are gathering.
Forty three point six billion dollars sit in accounts. And that’s just what’s liquid. I own assets across the world. Businesses, buildings, thousands of hectares of real estate and three islands.
I’d give it all away for one day with the man who earned it.
I just want to be alone. I’m suck of simpering sad faces, people playing at grief. They can’t hide the avarice in their eyes. People look at me and they see money. They always have, one way or another. Boys wanted to date me because they knew my father was loaded. That turned into young men trying to seduce me for the same reasons. It’s the reason I’m single. I never know if people are interested in me or my money, and that problem just got a whole lot worse.
Retreating to my bedroom, I try to pretend to myself like none of this has happened. If I just push recent events out of my mind, it’s almost as if my father is still here. We were never an overly close little family, but his existence was a happy weight in my mind. I knew he was there if I needed him. And now he’s not.
The world has come unanchored, and I am adrift. Nothing seems to have meaning anymore, and I have little interest in the life I have inherited.
Once I am fully alone, I strip the black lace dress from my body and fight my sad brain for an idea that might make this somehow okay. I have a vague notion of doing good. My father already owned several charitable foundations, but I intend to increase those givings severalfold. I used to think money was everything. It seemed to separate us from the suffering the rest of the world had to endure, but I have just discovered in a harsh way that all the money in the world doesn’t protect you from the realities of life. Anyone can get sick and die. My father got sick and died. He was only forty nine years old. Far too young but it happened anyway.
Life is short. I’m going to live it my way. Everybody I’ve met with today has had an idea for my money and my life. They’ve wanted me to be a spokesperson, a model. That’s all I’ve done up to this point, after all. Counting carbs and stalking runways and pretending that meant something.
My mind is whirling with misery and regret as I step into the shower. The twin jets cascade over my skin. They feel incredible. I take a deep breath and try to take stock of myself. I have the kind of wealth and power people dream of. I have the world at my feet. Once my grief passes, I will start making a difference.
There’s a little voice in the back of my head which snorts at that thought and asks me what difference I’ve bothered to make up until this point, but I push it away. I don’t need to feel any more worthless than I already do.
I hear something outside the bathroom door. A creak in the floorboard which only registers when men of certain weights step on it.
I stick my head out of the shower and call out.
“Miles? Is that you?”
There’s no response. But I’m sure there’s someone out there. I can just… feel it. Miles never listens to me. He does what he believes needs to be done, no matter what he is told, and most of the time he is right. He has been in the background of my father’s life for decades, making things a little more comfortable one little touch at a time. You know when Miles has been in a room. The bed will be turned down. There won’t be a hint of dust. There will be a drink of sparkling water, cooled to the perfect temperature. He is the perfect servant. Right now, I don’t need him.
I turn off the shower, wrap a towel around my body.
“I really don’t need anything, Miles!” I call out. “Just take the night off, okay?”
When there is no response, I open the bathroom door, and push it straight into a man who is not Miles.
There is nothing old or British or refined about this man. He is a barbarian in a suit.
He has long hair which curls roughly at the ends, tattoos which creep out under the sleeves of his shirt. A thick pelt of chest hair reveals itself at the opening of his shirt. It’s undone one button too many to be casual. Uncivilized, just like the rest of him.
“Hello, Chloe.” He greets me in a tone which borders on the casual.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to do something that should have been done a very long time ago.” His voice is like gravel being tipped onto hard asphalt. A rough, earthy sound which makes me reverberate inside.
My voice goes up in pitch as he crosses the room and takes hold of me. His hands are huge. When they curl around my upper arm, his fingers touch. He makes me feel instantly tiny, and terrifyingly vulnerable.
“MILES! Call the police!”
“Miles isn’t coming.”
He takes a seat in my grandmother’s antique chair. Nobody sits in it because its overstuffed and doesn’t have any arm rests. As it turns out, that suits my attacker just fine. He pulls me over his lap and the towel falls from my body, leaving me completely bare.
I have no idea what he is doing. I expect an assault of some kind. Something deviant and sexual, something brutal and frightening. I am half right. His palm lands on my bottom, his hand splayed flat to spank me.
The shock of being slapped makes me squeal, but he doesn’t seem to care how much noise I make. Doesn’t he realize that there is security here? Where the hell are they? How did he get past them? As my mind desperately fires questions, he keeps spanking me, his big palm making contact with my shower wet skin.
“Why are you doing this!?”
“You need this, Chloe,” he says, that voice rumbling through me.
“I definitely don’t!”
“You don’t know what you need, little girl. You don’t know what situation you’re in. You don’t know anything. Now be quiet and take your spanking.”
“Who the hell are you?!”
He stops. Thank god, he stops. “You’ll call me Master.”
“Oh for god’s sake, no I won… OW!”
The spanking starts again. Harder and faster this time. I scream and kick. I try to pull out of his grasp, but he’s not letting me go.
“You’re crazy! And you’re going to go to jail for this! You’re going to… OWWWWIE…” I squeal even louder as his palm strikes harder and lower. He’s spanking my upper thighs, and the sensation is reaching a peak I can’t contain.
“Master,” he growls. “That’s what you’ll call me.”
“Master,” I gasp. I’d call him anything just to have this stop. I’m not accustomed to pain. I’m even less accustomed to punishment, and that’s what this feels like, even if I don’t know what I’ve done to earn it.
“Good girl,” he says, giving me one more slap before drawing me up from his lap, not by my hands, but by my hair.
His eyes are brown. The kind of brown you can fall into. When I look into them, I sense a deep emptiness. There is an abyss inside this man.
“Who are you?” I whisper the question.
“I’m the man who is taking you, Chloe.”
“Taking me where?”
His hand slides over my seared cheeks, and pushes between my thighs. His long fingers find the slick lips of my sex. I’m wet. I don’t know why. I’m sore and embarrassed and scared. My body is in panic mode. Maybe that involves some instinctive response of arousal.
“Anywhere and any way I want.”
His voice makes me tremble. There’s something completely certain, totally possessive about it. He touches me as though he owns me, as if I am a thing for him to use. His fingers make the point further by sliding up and down my bare slit, smearing the traitorous juices along the folds of my sex.
I look into those eyes, search them for some hint of his identity. I don’t know him. I’m certain I have never met him. Can I be so sure, though? I meet thousands of people every year. Have I seen him before in a less predatory mode? Has he somehow blended into a crowd of fundraising rich-listers at some point? I know he has money. I can feel it in the way he carries himself. This is a man with power. This is a man who doesn’t believe the rules apply to him – because they don’t.
“You’re hurting me.”
“No I’m not,” he says, the tip of his finger finding the entrance of my sex. I feel it drift in a slow circle around that delicate place and then pull away to give me another sharp slap, reigniting the pain in my bottom.
“You won’t get away with this.”
He smirks, his expression becoming rakish and utterly arrogant. “Yes I will.”
The grip in my hair tightens as he marches me through my room into the adjoining office. I said I needed this for work, but no work has ever been done on the big oak desk. It’s impeccably clean thanks to Miles and his staff.
“What are you…”I pull against his grasp. “You’re insane.”
“I don’t think I am,” he says, a dark chuckle escaping his lips. “I think I’m just what you need, Chloe.”
“What do you want? Money? Or are you going to…”
I can’t even say it. But we both know what’s on his mind. He’s been touching me between my legs, his dark gaze consuming my body as I writhe in his grasp. He’s taken complete and total control of me and there’s nothing I can do but yap questions at him. Questions he clearly has no intention of answering.
“I’m going to give you what you need, and what you want.”
That big hand is back on my bottom. “You do want this. Don’t you.”
He is the devil incarnate. He is a stranger who has humiliated me and frightened me – and turned me on more than I have ever been in my life.
He bends me at the waist. I feel the cool surface of the table against my breasts and belly. I feel his shoe sweep my feet open and I feel his hands settle on the crowns of my cheeks.
“Stay down,” he drawls before I flatten my palms against the desk to push up. “I’m going to fuck you, Chloe, and you’re going to like it. But only if you’re a good girl.”
“Only if I’m… ow!”
His hand connects with my bottom again and then draws down over my cheeks and slips to the core of me. His fingertips stroke up and down the seam of my pussy. He draws the wetness up and down, over my clit and then back up again to the very entrance. Everything he does it deliberate. His touch is calculated, but oh so perfect.
He runs his other hand up the middle of my back. “That’s it,” he soothes. “Relax, settle in.”
Settle in? He makes it sound as though I am at a resort, not pinned over my own desk about to be ravaged by a stranger.
In spite of the strangeness of the command, I can’t help but do as he says. He knows how to lower his voice and make it soothing. He holds me firmly enough to make escape impossible, but not so hard it causes panic. I am not going anywhere, that much is obvious, and the longer I lie here, my bare, wet pussy on display, the more I feel myself submitting to him.
His fingers stroke between my legs again, trailing up the inside of my spread thighs, stroking the soft skin of my outer lips, finding the delicate folds between them and circling up around my clit. I find myself closing my eyes. So many men are so bad at touching me there. They are rough, brutal jerks who think a quick rub and maybe a lick or two is all it takes. This man knows better and is using that knowledge to his advantage.
“Good girl,” he praises, teasing my pussy with those gentle yet commanding touches. “Open wider, Chloe, show me what’s mine to take.”
“It’s not yours…”
“Oh yes it is. You already know that, don’t you.” His chuckle makes my stomach quiver. “You’re mine, aren’t you.”
His fingers leave my pussy, but return in a quick, light slap to my lips. It’s not hard enough to hurt, but it does serve as a warning.
“Tell me, Chloe.”
When I don’t say what he wants to hear, he repeats the treatment. Having my pussy spanked should be the most painful thing to happen to me, but it’s not. The sting is transformed into arousal almost instantly. The heat from my ass is sinking through my skin, into my flesh, driving me mad with need. I am so wet. I can feel it dripping down my inner thighs
And then I feel something else. Not his fingers, but the hot, hard, bare head of his cock sliding up my pussy. It brings me back to reality quickly. I don’t know him, and he’s not using protection. He is about to fuck me without any kind of barrier and…
“Shhhh…” he soothes, his hand scrunching in my hair. “Settle down and spread your legs.”
It’s a crazy order, but I follow it. My thighs relax and part. His cock pushes between my outer lips and finds the inner ones. He holds it there, poised at the very core of me.
“Please,” I gasp. “Don’t…”
He’s going to take me. There’s nothing I can do. He’s going to fuck me, and no matter how wet I am there’s no way I want this… right?
“Push back, Chloe. Take my cock.” His voice is soft, but rough and full of that natural command which makes him so hard to resist.
He’s not even going to do me the favor of letting me pretend this is against my will. He’s going to make me push back, fuck myself on him. He’s going to make absolutely certain that I have no recourse – and I’m already doing as he says. My inner walls begin to spread, their hot wet grip tight around his thick cock. He is big. My hips slide back slowly, pushing my pussy onto him. I hear myself whimper as I submit to this moment, to this sexual charge which has driven me utterly lust drunk.
It’s slow. I don’t know who I am torturing more, myself or him. Every extra inch brings with it a sense of fullness and completion, a stretching tightness which tries to battle against the invading force which I am responsible for inviting in.
“Yess…” I hear him hiss in triumph a moment before he growls, grips my hips, and pushes the rest of the way in.
My scream echoes around the room as he starts to fuck me with rough, savage strokes. He fucks me like he knows me. I have no idea who he is, but there’s something about the way he draws me down on his cock that is utterly personal.
He bounces me on his dick, his thick rod throbbing inside me, making my tight pussy spread wide. He pins me down and fucks me like he means it. My toes curl, my knees tremble. An orgasmic quivering starts to move through me, starting where his cock plunges in and out of me, spreading to every part of my body, my extremities tingling.
I cum, screaming at the top of my lungs. My orgasm is ripped from me with every rough thrust of his cock, my pleasure coming at his command, his every touch an inexorable order. I have never been taken like this before. Men have been rough with me, but it has never had this effect. I feel as though I am intoxicated as climax renders me soft and pliable around his rampant erection.
“That’s it. Good little toy,” he praises, dragging me back further off the desk so he can fuck me even more deeply. His dick pushes all the way inside me, stretching me to the very limits of my capacity. “You take your fucking really nicely, Chloe.”
His praise makes me glow, though I don’t know why. I should hate him – I do hate him. Don’t I?
Yes. Of course I fucking do. It’s just shock and grief and impending orgasm which lets me think any differently. I haven’t felt good – in literally any way, since my father died. Food has been tasteless. My usually active sex drive has been nil. I have been a shadow of myself, barely existing in the world. But this man just forced me back into life.
And he’s still fucking me.
He takes me with those brutal strokes, stirring my wet sex to another climax and then another. Orgasm becomes a rippling continuum taking place at the urging of his cock and fingers which wrap around my hip and find my clit, strumming that little bud with ruthless intensity until I shake and shout at the top of my lungs, sounding more animal than human.
I can hear his grunts and his growls. I know he’s close. Is he going to cum inside me? The thought sparks another one of those mini-climaxes which race through my exhausted nervous system, just as he pulls out, drops me down to my knees, fists his hand in my hair and tilts my head back so his cum can splash over my face, hot thick ropes of masculine scented seed claiming my skin.
“Oh fuck!” I splutter, turning my head away, but it is too late. I am soaked in cum.
He lets out a dark, breathless chuckle and pulls me up to my feet.
“Come on,” he says. “Time to go.”
I am marched naked through what used to be my home, but doesn’t feel like it anymore, all the way up to the roof where a helicopter stands waiting. It’s not one of mine. It is jet black and the golden logo emblazoned across the doors and nose is a stylized lion. Suddenly, my brain starts working again. I don’t recognize the man holding me, but I sure as hell recognize that brand.
“You work for Darko Lijander?”
That name has been on everyone’s lips for months. A billionaire out of Eastern Europe, there are rumors flying about how he made his money in poor war torn nations. He has been the subject of many, many conversations, but the man himself never made an appearance at any of our functions, or any of those I’ve attended.
My captor’s lips quirk. “Something like that. Get in.”
He guides me into the back of the helicopter, his cum still clinging to my skin. I smell of him. I look like… I can’t even imagine how torrid and trashy I must appear. He gets into the pilot’s seat and at his command the blades begin to spin.
I am being kidnapped from my home.
I start to scream, but the rushing sound of the propellors takes the sound away and soon we are too high over the city which looks like a play set from this distance for anyone to hear me. Nobody is going to save me.
It’s just as well Loki Renard became an author because other career paths proved disastrous. She was once thrown out of someone’s house for trying to sell them citrus based cleaning product, and her brief brush with corporate life ended when she wrote profiles for her fellow employees likening them to various feral animals then attempted to negotiate the idea of not coming into the office and getting paid anyway. Perhaps if she’d had the dedication to slug herself in the face a la Fight Club, things might have turned out differently.